by Tripp Ellis
"Did he?" she asked in an understated tone that would strike fear into the heart of any man—the tone of a woman who was sharpening the knives.
"I want you to think really hard about Thursday night and your time with Rex. Is there anything that gives you a hint of concern?"
Jayleen said nothing.
I continued, casually laying out the crime. "I mean, Rex only lives 10 minutes from Mangrove Bay. He could have gone to see her around 8 o'clock. Something went wrong, or maybe from his point of view, something went right. He strangled her in the salon, tidied up after himself, then made his way back to his mobile home. He could have easily done that by 9 PM. What time did you say you showed up at his place?"
She hesitated a moment, then stammered, "It was a little after 9 PM, I think."
"So, he very well could have killed Helen."
"Oh, I don't think Rex has it in him to do that," she said, almost trying to convince herself.
"There's that word again, think. But do you know? I mean, do we ever really know what another person is capable of?"
There was another long silence.
“Have you ever felt unsafe with Rex?"
"I mean, Rex likes to drink,” Jayleen said. “And sometimes, when he's been drinking all day long, he can get ornery. I don't think he means to, but he can be a real son-of-a-bitch sometimes. And I don't think he's aware of how strong he really is."
"Has he ever hit you?" I asked.
There was another long silence.
"It's okay. You don't have to answer that. But I think you and I both know the truth."
I let everything sink in for a moment.
"Now, I'm gonna ask you a question, and you don't have to answer me,” I said. “But I want you to answer yourself. Do you think there may come a day when Rex will have too much to drink and get upset with you for some reason? Maybe no reason at all? Maybe you guys have a disagreement. Maybe he wraps his big hands around your neck and chokes you to death. Do you think something like that could ever happen to you?"
She didn't say anything for a long time, but I knew I was getting to her. I had gotten inside her head, and it was only a matter of time.
"I want you to picture yourself in that helpless scenario,” I continued. “Imagine Rex’s hands around your throat. Maybe he's got you in a chokehold? You’re gasping for breath. Your eyes feel like they're going to pop out of their sockets. Your lungs burn, your throat is getting crushed. Doesn't sound fun, does it?"
"No, it doesn't."
"But the decision you make right now could keep that from ever happening."
"What do you mean? What decision?"
"There were cotton and polyester fibers found around Helen's neck. They came from a long sleeve navy blue T-shirt. Rex owns a shirt like that. I saw him wearing it when we spoke to him yesterday. If we had a sample of that shirt, we could match it against the fibers found on Helen’s body. We’d know for sure if Rex committed the crime."
After a long pause, Jayleen asked, “What do you want me to do?"
"I'm not telling you to do anything. But if somebody were to take pieces of tape and press it against that shirt, it would pick up fibers that could be analyzed and used for comparison. If that person were so inclined, they could bring that to the station and make a sworn statement about where it came from. Then we could get a search warrant.”
"Could that person do it anonymously?"
"They could. But at some point, they would have to testify, and their name would be on the affidavit."
"I need to think about it,” Jayleen said.
"By all means. Take your time. But I think you know as well as I do that every moment you spend with Rex, you’re rolling the dice."
25
Jayleen was on the verge of helping us, but I didn't want to push too hard and send her in the opposite direction.
Daniels poked his head into the conference room again with a grim look on his face. "You two need to get over to the law offices of Fillmore, Bamford & Associates ASAP!"
"Jayleen, I've got to go. I urge you to consider this. I'll be in touch again soon." I ended the call and asked Daniels, “What's going on?"
"Another pipe bomb.”
I deflated. "Anybody hurt?"
"One dead. That's all I know right now."
JD and I raced out of the conference room and darted across the parking lot. We hopped into the Porsche and zipped across the island to another professional building on Caribbean Way. The parking lot was full of patrol cars. There was an ambulance and a fire truck. Flashing emergency lights strobed the parking lot.
The building had been evacuated after the blast, and the lot was full of onlookers.
We parked the car, hopped out, pushed through the crowd, and moved past emergency vehicles. Deputies Mendoza and Robinson handled the crowd.
"Second floor, #220," Mendoza shouted as we passed.
"Have you been inside?" I asked.
He nodded. "It's not pretty."
“Has the building been swept for another device?"
"The canine team is in there now."
We pushed into the lobby and rushed past a Koi pond. We took the stairs up to the second floor and followed the smoke and haze to Suite #220. The air smelled like gunpowder mixed with the tinny metallic scent of blood and seared flesh.
Not a nice smell.
The concussion from the blast had shattered the glass double doors of the law firm. Brenda and a forensics team had already arrived. Camera flashes spilled down the hallway.
The corridor was littered with debris. Bits of twisted shrapnel from the bomb covered the floors and had penetrated the drywall. My eyes caught sight of a few bloody nails that had presumably been wrapped around the bomb and acted as additional projectiles. The walls were splattered with blood and chunks of flesh. The body of a man lay in the passageway near the door to his office. The door had been blown clean off its hinges, and both of the man's arms had been shredded. Each rested a few feet away from his torso.
The explosion pretty much disemboweled him, and his face was bruised, mangled, and dotted with puncture wounds. What was left of his tattered, charred white dress shirt was covered in blood.
"Is anybody else hurt?" I asked.
"A woman was taken to the hospital with a few puncture wounds. She was at the end of the hallway at the time of the blast,” Brenda said. “Fortunately, no one else was in the vicinity."
"What happened?" I asked.
"Looks like a package was left at his door. When he picked it up, it went off."
"Another mercury switch,” I assumed.
"That means we have a serial bomber on our hands," JD said. “This is going to continue, just like the letter said.”
"Who is the victim?” I asked.
"Charles Bamford,” Brenda said. "He's a partner here at the firm."
I scanned the debris and saw the remains of what looked like a 9V transistor battery, along with bits of twisted wire and fragments of paper. The bomb fragments were all covered with the same red paint used in the first bomb. I had no doubt the two devices were made by the same person.
Agents Blake and Ross arrived on the scene, and I caught them up to speed.
“Alright, my team will take over here,” Payton said. “I’ll let you know what we find. Do me a favor, talk to some employees, see what you can find out.”
I didn’t like losing control of the scene, but it wasn’t a battle worth fighting. "Looks like the bomber included a note with this one. Have fun piecing it together.”
“I tracked the battery down,” Payton said. “It was manufactured in March of last year and shipped to Improvement Depot on Pompano Drive in April.” She gave me the lot number and shipping information. “Maybe you can run that lead down?”
“Sure thing,” I said. I was starting to feel like an errand boy, but I was thankful for the lead.
We left the office, headed back down to the lobby, and pushed outside. I talked to Mendoza briefly, and he point
ed me in the direction of a man who worked at the firm. He was surrounded by a few women.
I approached the group, flashed my badge, and introduced myself.
The man was in his late-50s with almost pure white hair. He wore a dark charcoal suit, a red tie, and a white cotton dress shirt. He had a square jaw and a barrel chest. He looked like he’d be an imposing figure in the courtroom. A mix of sorrow and panic played on his face. He said his name was John Fillmore.
The women that surrounded him were all dressed in business attire.
"Were you in the office when this happened?" I asked.
John Fillmore looked at me with frazzled eyes. "Yes. I was in my office at the other end of the hall from Chip. I didn't know what the hell happened when the blast went off. It sounded like a cannon, and the whole building shook. I was on a call with a client at the time. I immediately rushed from my desk and pulled open my door. The hallway was filled with smoke. I saw Virginia on the ground, bleeding. She looked completely dazed. I rushed to her, then looked farther down the hallway and saw what was left of Chip." His voice broke up, and his throat grew tight. His eyes were slick. "This is related to the bombing of Judge Perry, isn't it?"
"It's too soon to tell, but the pattern is similar,” I said. "Can you think of any connection between Chip Bamford and Ed Perry?"
"Chip was a prosecutor in the district attorney's office before switching to the other side and practicing criminal defense. He's prosecuted and defended many cases in Ed Perry's court."
I pulled out my phone and called Denise immediately. "Hey, I need you to cross-reference every ex-con who was prosecuted by Charles Bamford in Ed Perry's court."
"I'm on it," she said.
I ended the call and returned my attention to John. “Do you know how the bomb got into the hallway?"
"I don't. Usually, the messengers and delivery services drop packages off at the reception desk.
"Who's your receptionist?"
“Virginia. The EMTs just took her to the hospital."
“Do you have surveillance video in your office?"
"No."
"What about the building? Are there security cameras in the common areas?”
"Not that I'm aware of."
My face tensed with a frown.
“Do you all work at the firm?” I asked, addressing the group.
The women nodded.
“Did any of you see who delivered the package?”
They all shook their heads.
I gave Mr. Fillmore my card and told him to call me if he could think of any additional details. I called the Emergency Room to check on Virginia’s status.
The receptionist said, “She’s currently in surgery. I can have the doctor call you when she’s in recovery.”
“That would be great, thank you.” I hung up and caught Jack up to speed.
“Let’s get out of here and make ourselves useful,” JD said.
We hopped into the Porsche and headed to Improvement Depot.
26
“You want a list of everyone who purchased those batteries since April of last year?” the customer service clerk asked with a slightly upturned lip.
“Yes,” I said. “Unless you can track sales by lot number.”
“Just the SKU.”
“What about video footage?” I asked, looking at the black domes hanging from the ceiling on every isle.
The store was cavernous with 35 rows of hardware. The store contained everything from light bulbs to lumber. There were power tools, bathroom fixtures, paint, gardening equipment, plumbing supplies, tile, carpet, wiring, and ductwork. Just about everything you’d need to build a pipe bomb you could find in the store, except for gunpowder.
“We only store video footage for 30 days. There are 40-plus cameras in the store, all capturing high-definition footage. Costs too much to store longer than that.”
“Do you know when your manager re-ordered a new shipment of batteries?”
The clerk pulled up the stocking information. “We typically restock those items every month. That batch was delivered in April last year, then we got another shipment one month later in May. I doubt we had any of that original lot left in stock after May.”
The clerk printed the list, and there were several hundred sales. Most of them were credit card purchases with a name attached, but there was a high percentage of cash sales with no way to track the purchaser.
"Who would be dumb enough to buy batteries on a credit card and put them in a pipe bomb?" JD muttered.
"The batteries were old. They had probably been sitting around the house,” I said. “Maybe we'll get lucky. The bomber could have forgotten all about purchasing them on a credit card. He probably thought the evidence would be completely destroyed."
"Let's hope he's that stupid."
We left the home improvement store and strolled across the parking lot. There was a shopping cart precariously close to JD’s Porsche, and he examined the nearby quarter-panel for dings. Satisfied, he climbed into the Porsche, and we headed back to the station.
The place was bustling with activity. Denise had a beaming smile on her pretty face when we arrived at her desk. “You are going to love me."
"What if I already do?" I replied.
"Well, you're going to love me even more. There are only two guys that were prosecuted by Charles Bamford in Judge Perry’s Court that had a history of explosives, and one of them is dead."
My eyes widened with intrigue. "Who is the guy that’s still alive?”
"Lamar Bailey. 36 years old. Served six years for possession of an explosive device. A pipe bomb. He was living with his parents at the time, and they were growing increasingly concerned with his behavior and extremist attitudes. They actually called in a report, and deputies found a few completed pipe bombs as well as literature on bomb-making. His Internet search history showed he had visited several sites and downloaded multiple schematics. He was paroled last year."
"He made a pipe bomb, and he only got six years?" JD said.
“He didn't do anything with it, and he didn't make any threats,” Denise said. “He served his time, and from what I can tell, he didn't get into any altercations or have any incidents while in prison."
"That sounds like our guy,” I said.
Denise smiled.
I searched through the list of battery purchases that we had gotten from the improvement store. A grin tugged my face when I saw a credit card in the name of Margery Bailey. The card had to belong to Lamar’s mother. “This is definitely our guy. Is he still living with his parents?”
“Current address on his driver’s license is 1347 Tangled Line Drive.” Denise tapped a few keys and pulled up his mug shot.
I took a good look at Lamar.
He was an average looking guy with a round face, light brown hair, and droopy hazel eyes.
I informed Sheriff Daniels, then called Lamar Bailey’s parole officer and learned that he was currently working as a groundskeeper at a Catholic Church on Newton Lane. The parole officer said that Lamar had been meeting all of his obligations and didn’t show any indication of re-offending.
Clearly, Lamar was a good actor.
I called the church and spoke with Father McKinley. “Lamar is currently on the premises, but I have a hard time believing he would do such a thing.”
“I’m sorry, Father, but it looks like Lamar has taken up his old ways."
"You’re sure about this? I’ve spoken with him on many occasions about his conviction. Lamar has expressed a great deal of remorse. He admitted to me that he was in a very angry frame of mind back then and assured me that he never had any intention of using those pipe bombs. He said he was actually glad that he was arrested when he was. It gave him time to reflect. I believe he is a fully rehabilitated man, and he has been nothing but a great help to the church."
“Despite that, there's enough evidence that we need to take a closer look."
“If you must arrest him, please do so with dignity,
respect, and concern for his well-being."
"We will," I assured.
I made another call to Agent Blake and filled her in on the details.
“Nice work,” she said.
“Don’t thank me, thank Denise. She’s the one who did the leg work on this.”
Denise smiled proudly.
“I’ll put together a response team and get a warrant,” Payton said. “Let's take this son-of-a-bitch down."
"Music to my ears."
We suited up in tactical gear with helmets and vests and rode with Erickson and Faulkner in the armored response vehicle toward St. Agnes Catholic Church. The black, knobby tires whirred against the roadway as we bounced along in a vehicle that could withstand a blast from an IED. It was overkill for Coconut Key, but having nice toys to play with was always fun.
27
Two steeples stabbed at the sky. The ornate stone building had classic Gothic architecture. Colorful stained glass windows lined the building. Steps led to the main double doors of the church, and a stone relief of St. Agnes adorned the entablature above.
Lamar Bailey cruised a riding lawnmower across the grass, spitting finely chopped blades. The engine rumbled, and he listened to a pair of over-ear headphones.
We pulled up to the church with the DEA response team and filed out of the tactical vehicles. We advanced across the lawn with weapons drawn and quickly surrounded Lamar.
He looked stunned. He put the lawn mower in neutral, killed the engine, and raised his hands in the air.
"Down on the ground! Now!" Agent Ross shouted.
Lamar climbed off the lawnmower and ate the dirt. The ATF agent slapped the cuffs around Lamar’s wrists and yanked him to his feet. Lamar had put on a little weight since his mug shot, and his round belly hung over his belt.
Agent Blake read him his rights as Ross dragged him across the lawn and stuffed him into the back of a patrol car.
Father McKinley watched the whole operation in dismay. I gave him a wave, and he just shook his head.
Lamar was taken back to the station, printed, processed, and put into an interrogation room while we accompanied the ATF to his parent’s house.
